


The Joy of Salad

by zombiegardener



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst?, Gen, Homesickness, I also have no idea why I'm posting this, I have no idea why i wrote this, i like salads, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:16:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8977459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiegardener/pseuds/zombiegardener
Summary: Lance tries to ignore his homesickness by obsessing over safe things. Like, you know, salad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I was trying to motivate myself to finish other things and get myself in the right frame of mind, and I wrote this. While eating lunch. And listening to Colder Weather by Zac Brown Band. That's all I've got.

Lance hunched forward over the table, listlessly pushing the ever-present goo around his plate while listening to the low buzz of conversation. He didn’t think he could even stand the sight of goo anymore. He thought maybe he was even starting to hate the color green, although he’d never tell Pidge that.

It wasn’t even the goo’s fault. Hunk and Coran tried, or anyway Hunk tried to undo whatever it was that Coran did. They hadn’t had an opportunity to make a supply run in ages. The goo was filling and nutritional even if it was bland, and the consistency was really more runny oatmeal than raw oyster. It was more that it wasn’t food, at least not the way his mind defined the word.

Things had gotten bad enough that he was even starting to crave salad. Salad. And not the citrusy or heart of palm salads from holidays, no. More the sad little almost brown lettuce and single tomato wedge salads that restaurants trotted out to patrons out of some need for necessity or possibly preemptive revenge. It was ridiculous. He hated those salads. Or he was sure he would have if he’d ever given them a second thought. Now, though, they were all he could think about. The crunch (or well, almost crunch) of the lettuce. The tang of the tomato. The overboard amount of dressing to disguise the sadness of it all.

Lance wasn’t stupid, despite all comments to the contrary. He knew he was obsessing over something stupid (salad, really?) so he wouldn’t think of other things, like rice and beans and homemade tortillas and his abuelita’s soup and pizza and even freaking McDonald’s, because salad wasn’t likely to make him break down in tears in the middle of dinner. Which was good, because he was pretty sure he’d never live down crying over salad. Regardless, it had become a symbol of home in his mind that didn’t fill him with a twisting pain.

If he just focused on salad, he wouldn’t think about his brothers and sisters and the way that they hadn’t told him they’d miss him when they’d left for the Garrison but had instead pooled their money to buy him a new Ipod and downloaded all their music and random videos so home would never be far away. The thing he was most grateful for was that it had been in the pocket of his jacket when they’d left, so at least he wouldn’t have to fear losing their voices.

He wouldn’t think about how it had been months since he’d been home when they were still on Earth, or how the dry heat of Arizona was so different from the humidity of Cuba. How the blue sky still stretched endlessly over the head and yet wasn’t the same sky. And how now he didn’t even have that connection.

He wouldn’t worry that he was drowning in the quiet and start to miss the noise and chaos and confusion of home that he’d been so eager to escape when he’d left.

No, it was better to think of salad. It was definitely safer.

One thing was certain- when (if) they got home, he was never taking salads for granted again.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should apologize for some reason. To salads if nothing else.


End file.
